


It’s Progress

by exhaustburns



Category: Red Dead Redemption 2
Genre: I’m sorry if it sucks massive ass, M/M, Rape Aftermath, Slight Canon Divergence, That One Stranger Encounter In The Bayou, dutch is a cold bastard and doesn’t give two fucks, i wrote this whole damn thing on my phone in like an hour, if any of you know what I mean then you know what to expect, it’s kind of dialogue heavy and it bothers me, john tracks arthur down and saves him, just make sure you’re reading these damn tags this is gonna be a fucked up fic sorry, oh yeah homophobia probably!! and probably internalized too ok, things get kind of descriptive at a certain point so I’m really not joking about triggers, tw: rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-16
Updated: 2018-11-16
Packaged: 2019-08-24 10:23:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16638134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exhaustburns/pseuds/exhaustburns
Summary: Arthur hates Lemoyne County, hates Saint Denis, and most of all? The Bayou.—Arthur goes missing during a hunting trip and when John realizes Dutch stopped giving a fuck about the gang’s well-being, John sets out to find him.—Post-Prison Breakout. Chapter 6. No TB.





	It’s Progress

**Author's Note:**

> this is officially my first fic ever !!  
> it’s probably sucky so like, accept that before you move forward, also keep reading the notes here and then the end notes too pls. 
> 
>  
> 
> hey so im physically begging all of you to resist from pointing out that the beginning summary sentence sounds like a supernatural au, I will fight you all that’s not allowed whatsoever
> 
> Also if you haven’t finished the game then what the fuck are you doing here you’re on thin ice pal you better run now before I explain what’s so divergent about canon 
> 
> Arthur doesn’t have tuberculosis. why? cause he deserves better after dealing with Dutch for 20+ years and you can die mad about it
> 
> also I had this happen during beaver hallow, for reasons that will just sort of line up at the end of things a’right? cool, enjoy and remember this is _THAT STRANGER ENCOUNTER_ and it will get detailed at a certain point but not for long so please consider any triggers you have before reading 
> 
> I don’t own rdr, cause i gotta say that so I don’t get sued by rockstar or whoever the fuck

If there’s one thing Arthur would never want to do after this whole mess finally blows over; its come to this part of the god damn country ever again. How did the locals just live like this? Completely aware of the things hiding in swamp water? He hates it. Hates the stickiness of the air. Hates how he can never seem to cool down, not even in the night. If he didn’t need alligator skins, oh he’d be fuckin’ out of here. Fast. 

It’s about time for the sun to set, which is completely fine with Arthur, though hunting would have to come to a stop until morning. His lantern scared the giant bastards away anyway, and he was tired, and hungry, and Saint Denis was only a couple miles ride away. An even better excuse to get the hell out of here, god forbid those Lemoyne Riders found him out here fondling a bow and arrow. They’d certainly laugh themselves off their saddles. 

He whistles for Riley, the blood bay thoroughbred breaking through the brush in response. Sliding the bow into the holster, Arthur hoists himself onto his mount effortlessly, letting out a grateful exhale. No more stomping in the mud. What a blessing, he outta have Reverend say a prayer in his stead. 

It’s a quiet ride, if you disregard the uncomfortably wet sounds of hooves squishing in the mud, and weird croaking and screeching sounds coming from all angles of this deranged forest. Being in the heart of this place was the worst thing he’s probably ever done to himself and Arthur wished the three near perfect skins he had were enough, and yet...he needed two more. Strauss put a silly word on that before he left, somethin’ like a...uh.. sadist. Whatever that meant. 

“Maybe I should ask, when I get back.” He grumbles to himself, Riley’s ears flicking back obediently. 

It’s another handful of minutes as the Bayou gets unsettlingly dark when Arthur sees a dim light and hears a friendly voice. 

“Hey mister,” 

Arthur brings Riley to a stop in front of a Shack he hadn’t even bothered to notice, but it slouches in the exact same way Arthur felt emotionally. Wasn’t that funny. 

“Hello,” Arthur replies, seeing the man in overalls stand up from his seat on his porch and smile. 

“You look starved! Why, I’ve got food, you know? Come in, come in! I’ve got plenty, really. Caught some good catfish and I was just about to roast them!”

Arthur watches as the man eagerly waltzes into his home, not even sparing the man with a five thousand dollar bounty a second glance and holding the door open from the inside. 

“Oh Jesus, alright. Fine. You season that catfish, stranger? I ain’t much a fan of bland meat.” 

“Oh sure, we have lots of spices out here, Mister.” 

Arthur climbs the couple steps up to the porch and walks through the threshold of the front door, sparing a quick look around the shack. It’s as beat down as it looked from outside but whatever, hospitality didn’t need a fancy home. 

“Just you wait and see, Mister.”

He frowns a bit, ready to turn around when he feels a white hot burst of pain coming from the back of his head and he yells out loud, crumpling to his knees. His vision blurs, black creeping into it in waves. 

The last thing he hears are gleeful laughs, and Arthur wonders if he’ll wake up again, or if this is his last look at this shitty fucking reality.

—

“He’s _missing_ , Dutch! What if it was the Pinkertons, are we just supposed to let him hang?” 

“Son, if the Pinkertons found him, what makes you think you could make it out alive? What if you fall right into their perfectly set trap and run all the way back here and get us all hung?” 

“He’s family! Those are the risks we take!” 

“Like _hell_!” 

Dutch’s voice strikes like lightning, burning John like he had just been electrocuted; but instead of with electricity, it was his loyalty to Dutch that had been fried further. Once again. 

All these mistakes, all these deaths, John just wanted this to be some sort of surreal nightmare he was going to wake up from. They’d be back in Blackwater, prepping for the robbery and live happily ever after, like those stupid fairytales. Why couldn’t that be the way they had it? 

Dutch’s indifference and denial was only making the pain hurt worse. He acted like everyone’s doubt, or everyone smart enough _to_ doubt him was hurting him, but what had he been losing this whole time? Dignity? His reputation as an incorruptible leader? 

Well, what a fucking surprise this hellride has been. The man John Marston considered a father was just as much a disappointment as his biological father, but seeing it happen hurt way worse than he could properly express. 

“You know what, Dutch? I thought maybe Arthur would be the exception. You ain’t got Hosea no more. He’s gone, and that’s on you. I figured me getting arrested? Well, take one for the gang and at least I’ll get buried proper,” John snaps, ignoring Abigail’s yell. Dutch’s eyes narrow in infuriation. 

“—but not even Arthur, the man I considered your absolute favorite, ain’t worth dying for? Was calling us your sons just a lie? Is that all we are? Disposable?” 

Dutch’s silence reeks throughout the camp and it’s an awful, terrible feeling and absolutely everyone can feel it. Nobody dares make a noise and John barely manages to keep himself quiet. Not even the horses stir. 

“I said no. I meant no. Arthur knew hunting down there was a risk, he accepted that. Is it my fault, or my responsibility to save him?” 

“ ‘Course not, Dutch. That boy’s a fool, there ain’t no point in putting us in that sort’a situation, right John?” Micah pipes in, and John wasn’t sure if the temptation to shoot a man’s brains out had _ever_ been so intense. 

“Shut the hell up, Micah, you dumbass.” 

Dutch saunters away, not even bothering to finish the conversation and Micah, the ‘loyal’ dog he is, follows.

He doesn’t register it at first, but he feels his hands grabbing for his gear before his mind catches up. He’s packing, and it hits him that he’s not packing for a rescue mission, but his valuables. The few things he actually cared about. He stomps to Arthur’s corner and grabs the few things that seemed somewhat important, too. 

“John? _John_!” Abigail hisses, slapping his upper arm when he doesn’t reply.

“What?” He muses, finally facing the mother of his son. 

“You’re going out there? Alone?” 

“Sadie is gone, doing god knows what, Charles is helping the tribe. Javier and Bill are blind idiots, and everyone else?” 

“You have a child, John.” 

He doesn’t reply. He’s not sure how; how to comfort the half frantic woman or how he’s really going to survive a half assed rescue mission from a squadron of Pinkerton agents. But fuck, what kind of man would he be to let Arthur hang without even trying? 

“Pack your things. Dutch has gone mad.” John insists, moving to walk past Abigail. 

“So have you,” she says simply, watching him walk away. 

Old Boy is already at attention, head raised and ears perked. The stallion always knew when it was time to ride, and John certainly appreciated someone being ready to do something. 

With a swift push, he seats himself on his saddle and takes off into the dusk, not a word to spare. 

—

The first time Arthur wakes up, he sees the man in the overalls looking down on him with a sadistic look in his eyes. There’s a hand stroking his cheek like he’s some beautiful Saint Denis maiden and its absolutely _demeaning,_ he’s never hated anything more. 

“You struggle quite a bit, don’t you pet?” Is the quiet remark, and it hits Arthur’s ears like an awful truth he didn’t want to face. He tries to move away, kick, throw a punch, yell, but he barely moves his reatrained arms. 

His instinct screams bloody murder, because bloody murder might just be his goddamn fate tonight if he didn’t get the fuck _out_. But his body doesn’t respond the same. It feels like he’s weighed down by his own skin and bones and it’s awful how he can feel _everything._

He can feel the faux gentle touch on his cheek and the roaming hand on his bare waist. 

Worst of all, he can feel the wetness between his legs and Arthur begs to _god_ it’s blood. Or piss. Just not what the back of his mind is strongly suggesting. Yet the pain is undeniable and for the first time in a very long time, he felt fear. The kind of fear people who escape death describe, that awful moment before accepting the reality of things and that was the last thing he wanted to do. There was no acceptance about this. 

A gross creep from the bayou had easily lured him in like a lost soul and the guilt he felt was worse than being strung up by the O’Driscolls. It burned worse than the pain from between his legs. 

The hand goes further south and Arthur cries out in defiance, though all that really comes out is a mumble and his body lies stagnant. 

Shame _burns_ like a wildfire. Arthur closes his eyes as the man calls him ‘ _pet_ ,” another dozen or so times as he straddles him. 

Perhaps death would’ve been kinder. 

—

Arthur is sure he’s force fed food laced with some sort of herb, because he doesn’t feel hungry but always, _always_ drowsy. It was like being drunk and being trapped in a body that didn’t feel like your own. 

The stranger uses him, often, and if he’s not using Arthur for his disgusting and repulsive desires only a haggard recluse would have; he would leave for hours. Sometimes Arthur could manage to stay awake and try his best to fight his way out of his binds, but they’re too tight and he’s too drugged to do much else but stare at the ceiling and listen to the shack creak in the sticky bayou heat. 

He doesn’t have clothes on of any sort anymore, and he has no idea when his captor removed it all. He hasn’t a fucking clue if he’s only been here a few hours or a few days, but if god wanted to punish him for being a sinner, well this certainly _has_ to be hell. Nothing else in his life could ever match up to this. 

Not a single goddamn thing.

—

The hermit lessens on the drugging, but his restraints only get more complex. The man settles for a rag tied around Arthur’s mouth and several binds down the length of his forearms. His legs are held down when the disgusting fool has his way with him, when he wants to bite and lick as he so pleases, but on the off chance the man sleeps or leaves, his legs are restrained too. 

Arthur hates that he can’t let the drugs lure him into a dreamless state when he’s being fucked anymore, because at least blacking out was an escape. His captor was maybe smarter than he looked. Or just clever. Now he can’t drown anything out and Arthur knows he’s losing his mind. He can almost see his sanity flowing out of him like a river, and any hope of escaping has diminished but the shame burns like he’d been sliced with a dagger a thousand times. 

How could he let some fool touch him in these ways? Call him a pet, like some prostitute? He was torn between letting death consume him, or murdering this man and ripping him to shreds the moment it presented itself. 

Time passes before the hermit shows his repulsive face in the shack again, talking some sort of nonsense before coming to the bed and undressing himself. 

“ _No,_ ” he mumbles through the rag, but it’s all just garbled mess that only seems to bring the hermit pleasure. Or amusement. Probably both, the sick fuck. The sensation of hands unraveling his legs make his stomach lurch and the urge to throw up is so intense Arthur wonders if he’ll choke on it. 

The bed springs creak and for the first time since getting trapped, he _feels_ it and genuine tears spill from his eyes, and he hates the look of genuine joy on his captor’s face. It is really the worst thing he’s ever seen and all Arthur can do is lay there in the pain and utter fear of never escaping. 

He wasn’t a good man. He didn’t have clean hands and he’d broken laws and there was plenty of good reasons to have such a high bounty on his head and government agents wanting him dead, but he sure as _shit_ didn’t deserve some perverted hillbilly fucking him like he did. 

The rage and shame fight for a moment, and the whole overwhelming moment almost makes Arthur miss the loud shotgun ringing in his ear. 

Time stops as his eyes fly to the door, which is now half gone and mostly wooden shrapnel and standing amidst the wreckage is surely an angel with John’s face. 

“What the _hell_ ,” John shouts, taking in the absolutely horrific scene before him. He feels sick, watching the man rush to his own gun. It’s not fast enough, because he’s got lead splattered into his chest, coughing up blood and collapsing before he even fully acknowledges it. 

Dead body aside, John rushes to Arthur, immediately unsheathing his knife and sawing away at the restraints covering Arthur’s arms. 

All Arthur can do is stare up at John’s pale face, heart sinking as he realizes that the worst of it all is dead and laying very bloody on the floor, but he feels this venom _sink_ into his bones. A worthlessness. How could possibly hate himself even more? 

As the adrenaline slips away, Arthur can’t help but think of what Hosea had told him once, in his younger days. 

“Be careful what you ask for.” 

—

John notices Arthur pass out and his pulse skyrockets. The last restraint gives way to the sharpness of his knife and he’s immediately searching for the clothes strewn carelessly around the floor. He sucks up all the built up emotions and dresses Arthur without thinking. 

He just does. It’s all he can do. 

Once he’s dressed up Arthur, he slings him carefully over his shoulder and walks out of the shack without a second glance. All he wants to do is get the unconscious man to his campsite outside Emerald Ranch. 

It took him a full week to just get wind of Arthur’s whereabouts, and finally someone in Lagras had mentioned something to him. He searched all corners of the Bayou for anything, a clue, a discarded weapon, a Pinkerton patrol. 

But to imagine this was where he found Arthur? He wishes it was agents instead, and he tries not to imagine the horror Arthur had to withstand for a while god damn week. He scolds himself for taking so long as he places the unconscious man on the back of his horse. 

_I have to apologize, as soon as he wakes up._

He ties Riley’s reins to the horn on his saddle and takes off as fast as he can, desperate to leave Lemoyne. 

— 

When Arthur wakes up again, he doesn’t open his eyes. He doesn’t want to see the same ceiling again, doesn’t any to admit to himself that he was still at the hermit’s mercy and his playtoy. He didn’t want to face the dark thoughts swirling in his head about how he really should just die. 

When he opens his eyes, it’s not a ceiling he sees. It’s not restraints around his arms that he feels and it’s not muggy swamp air that he smells. 

Arthur sits up in a rush, eyes wide in terror, ready to strangle the fuck out of the man. 

But all he sees is John from across the campfire, looking tense but purposely not staring at Arthur. 

It all comes back like a punch in the throat. 

John saved him. It wasn’t a dream. 

“John,” Arthur croaks, voice rugged from being neglected for so long. He feels like shit, all over and he must look it too, but Jesus he can’t remember the last time he felt this grateful to someone before. 

“Shut up a second, and drink this.” 

Arthur takes the coffee cup. The warmth makes him sag and the caffeine goes down the hatch. 

There’s only silence afterwards, Arthur too afraid to speak because John saw him like _that_. Suddenly the coffee surges up and Arthur leans away to puke his guts out. Not much else but the coffee comes out, but at some point the gagging turns into uncontrollable, quiet sobs as Arthur tries to keep the wave of emotions under control. 

He thinks he must look a whole fool, snot dribbling and emotionally compromised like he’d never shown before. 

Yet, John doesn’t belittle him for it. He doesn’t say two words and somehow that comforts him so much more than relentless conversation. He just finally had a moment, and John was the one he could thank for that. 

Hours tick by and silence remains, Arthur finally laying down on the grass and staring at the dark sky above. John cooks game over the fire and his presence does not push or press for answers. For once the both of them being the silent type really was a good thing. 

“Dutch didn’t want me to find you.” 

John finally blurts, frowning immediately. Arthur could see it in his face that he instantly wished he’d stayed quiet. 

“He didn’t want me to get you from Sisika.” Arthur replies, trying to feign the hurt that resonated in his chest. Not even Dutch gave a shit. Why was he acting surprised? 

“I thought it was the Pinkertons. Thought you’d have been in custody. I looked for you anyway.” 

“Thank you, John.” There’s fuck all else he can really say to that, but he means it. He was safe now. Or safer. 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry it took me so long.” The floodgates open, John stuttering and looking completely frustrated with himself and Arthur feels guilty, for a reason he can’t explain. 

“Stop. I owe my life to you. You don’t need to apologize.” 

John’s eyes meet Arthur’s, and they come to a silent understanding. Today was eventful enough and the last thing Arthur could handle was sentiment. He’d break. So he nods once and let’s his head fall back onto his sleeping bag again. 

At some point he falls asleep once more. 

—

John doesn’t let himself sleep. Instead he continues to keep an eye out for things, fingers wrapped around his pump-action like it was glued to them. 

At some point he starts to stare at Arthur’s sleeping form and he feels his heart constrict. What he’d found Arthur in was incomprehensible and he knew something like that would change a person. If only he’d gone with him to hunt, maybe things wouldn’t have turned out this way. 

Yet he wasn’t able to apologize. 

He wonders what they’re supposed to do now, how they’ll be able to get back to camp without Micah telling Dutch to kick them out of the gang. He would bet the little weasel already discussed that. 

They spend a few more days in the plains of New Hanover, setting up camp and John making sure Arthur was eating and drinking what he probably was lacking on. After a few days some sort of life restored itself in Arthur’s posture, his eyes were still dull but his skin wasn’t as pale and he could sit up completely without pain. 

It was progress. 

—

“So,” Arthur speaks during a meal shared over the campfire, swiping at peaches in a can. “What’s the situation with Dutch? Think we can go back?” 

“I don’t think it’s about if we could. Dutch is... Dutch just ain’t the man we all thought he was. He was ready to let us both die. He’s changed so much.” 

Arthur shakes his head, passing the peach can to John, who takes it from him. 

“It’s not like that. People don’t change, John. People just _are_. Dutch was always this person, we just never seen it ‘till now. Cause he didn’t need to before.” 

John takes the last peach, and after a few moments, throws the empty cab with a yell. 

“What the fuck do we even _do_ now—,” 

“We leave.”

“Now?” 

“Fuck it, yeah.” Arthur admits carefully. “Tilly gave me this stupid fucking key to the box Dutch keeps the gang’s money in. I know where it is.”

“Are you seriously considering that we rob Dutch, right now?” 

“Yeah. How does one last job sound, John?” 

—

The caves are eerie and empty, they’d observed for a few hours just Incase Dutch had any convenient intentions of checking the lockbox, but nobody ever shows and as risky as it sounds, both men decide it’s now or never. 

The plan was to take the money and run for the hills. California was still bleak, but they could take the train as far west as possible and then travel stagecoach beyond that point. They could handle the harsher living if it meant anonymously blending into the last of wild society. They weren’t trying to run from it anymore, they just needed those bounties to be pushed aside for newer criminals. 

Arthur goes in first, seemingly unarmed just if anyone is guarding the box. As a precaution, anyway. 

John agreed to walk in five minutes later, and if any gunfire is heard to decide to run in and help, or away. Arthur gave him that choice. 

The coast stays clear and the area stays devoid of gunfire, so John heads in for the caves and rushes to the exact point the lockbox should be. 

Arthur is there, peeking around for bodies or traps, but once he sees John he motions for him to hurry the hell up. 

They had a train to catch, after all. 

—

Fifteen thousand. 

_Fifteen goddamn thousand dollars._

Dutch had stowed every cent away, and had yet managed to make everyone believe that they barely had anything. This had to be more than enough to get all of them out. there’s no way it wasn’t. 

So, they took it all. 

It was selfish and most of all, utterly devious, but Arthur knew he’d send some of it back to those deserving enough. John seemed fine with the idea, but they needed to get the hell out of here. 

They ran for the train station outside Strawberry and paid for the train ride that took them to the other side of the Rockies. After that it would be up to them to get train tickets or coach tickets since the railroad company couldn’t go past that point. 

The train ride took four days and three different trains, but eventually they cross the Rockies and Arthur steps off the passenger cabin with John right behind him, guns tucked neatly in their ‘luggage.’ They used the suits they wore to the Mayor’s ball in Saint Denis, and as far as all these strangers could tell; they were New Yorkers out of their damn minds. 

—

The last train ride takes a day and a half, but eventually they get off in the northern part of California, with beautiful forests and absolutely no bounties. 

The bank is a small safe and one who man in the building, and Arthur is the one to bring up the idea of running a ranch. 

“Us? Ranchers? Are you pulling my leg, Arthur Morgan?” 

John asks with an incredulous laugh. 

“Why the hell not. Start off with a nice house, right? Then we get a barn. Buy a couple cows. Get some milk out of them. Sell that. Then, get some chickens. Sell the eggs. Plant some damn crops. Who the hell knows, but we got the money and some version of freedom, for now we should enjoy that.”

John just shakes his head, still smiling. They’d been gone over a week, not a trace left behind and he’d been amazed at how much Arthur’s entire being had changed once they crossed the Rockies. He still had a lot of demons inside, and that probably wouldn’t ever change, but they escaped Dutch’s reign. Alive.

They kind of had a reason to be giddy.

“Let’s start with a house, huh? What’s your fake name going to be if it’s going to be on the Deed?”

Arthur considers that for a minute, and lets out a snort.

“You think Miss Grimshaw would curse me from the afterlife if I used her last name?”

“You think Charles would be mad if I used his?” 

Both men break into laughter in the middle of the sparsely populated town. 

“Well, nice to meet you John Smith.” Arthur says, nudging him with an elbow. 

“Oh, and _you Arthur Grimshaw._ ” 

—

Months pass. 

Farming is maybe tougher than either of them expected; yet it’s quiet and good, genuine work they can truthfully say is worth the trouble. 

John has a knack for birthing cows and horses, and Arthur finds himself fond of the crops, watching them grow over time. The town stays the same, with few people coming in every month or so to start fresh. 

If Arthur could pick his favorite part, he’d have to say the sunsets. His land has a perfect view of the sun as it rises from the mountains in the far distance, and he can see into the valley below the animals that wake as he does.

It’s beautiful. It’s peaceful. He feels a small piece of himself heal when he watches the sun rise, even more so when John watches one with him. 

It’s progress.

**Author's Note:**

> hey thanks for reading my first fic ever, I’m sorry for typos because I wrote this all on my phone in one try at midnight and posting this is so fucking terrifying 
> 
> but just real quick I wanted to clarify some things 
> 
> • I don’t want this fic to represent what I feel about the lgbtq+ community, this is just how my mind thought a man from the late 1980’s would think about same sex. I love and support all of you and don’t condone that sort of narrow minded thinking.  
> • I also want to clarify that the non consensual situations are not based on any realistic scenarios and are probably not that accurately depicted, as I didn’t really want to focus on that too much even though that is mainly the conflict of this fic  
> • the pairing is John/Arthur and yes it is romantic, but considering this is only one chapter I figured that could be kind of in the background or only just registering to both of them. I also felt like romance right after being held hostage and taken advantage of for several days was going to seem unhealthy and very shitty imo tbh
> 
> My biggest point is I really hope this didn’t offend/trigger anyone as it was mostly a word dump (a very dark one) after pretty much binge playing the entire story in rdr2. none of what I’ve written here reflects my views on anything whatsoever.
> 
> also yeah I know it sounds shitty and it totally is but I really just don’t always like John and Abigail and yeah. johns had enough let him live in California with his future cowboy boyfriend 
> 
> Again, thank you all for reading! If you’d like, a kudos would be appreciated.


End file.
